


Honesty

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Theresa confides in Philip's mom during a surprise visit.





	1. Chapter 1

“I think you should go on to work,” Theresa said softly.

She and Philip were snuggled together in bed on a cold Friday morning in the middle of January, and the truth was that the last thing she wanted was for Philip to get up and leave. As usual, his body was radiating warmth, and being tucked in his arms was the only thing keeping her from shivering.

Theresa was cold all the time these days, but it was far worse when she was feverish, and she suspected she was this morning. She’d had yet another exhausting week spent fighting yet another unidentifiable bug, and she’d realized last night—after rather a lot of urging from Philip—that she wasn’t up to dragging herself into the office for yet another day. She felt even worse this morning, and she was silently grateful that they’d come home to Maidenhead last night.

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you being alone all day…your forehead’s warm,” Philip said, kissing it.

“I’m okay.” Her automatic response the last few months.

Philip raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well, I’m more okay than I have been other times you’ve stayed home, “ she amended. “You should go.” Philip had missed so many days this fall and winter already thanks to her frequent illnesses and her doctor’s appointments and her flu that had lasted for weeks and weeks and everything else that came with the diabetes she could not seem to control, and there was no sense in him staying home yet again when there was nothing more wrong than the low grade fever she’d had more times than she wanted to count.

He didn’t answer, and she nestled against him as he cuddled her closer. “This isn’t like that flu I had,” she continued a moment later.

“How do you know?” he asked immediately, and she knew she’d landed directly on his objection to leaving her.

“Because—because I don’t feel anywhere near that sick. I’m just a little run down. I’m not…it’s not like that. I’m sure of it.” In the middle of October, she’d come down with flu. It had been normal at first, but then it hung on. And on. And on, all while doctors could diagnose nothing beyond flu itself. She hadn’t been rid of it until the beginning of December, and it had been a frightening, horrible, traumatic couple months. This, she was certain, wasn’t like that.

“I’m not going to do anything more than have a lie in and work a bit from the couch,” she went. The latter was a lie—she didn’t feel like doing anything besides curling into a miserable ball. “I’m going to be very boring, and I won’t need a thing.”

“You’ll need lunch,” he said. “You need to eat, even if you don’t feel like it. And you need breakfast.”

“I can—”

Philip silenced her with a kiss. “Which is why I made you some soup last night. It’s in the refrigerator waiting to be reheated for your lunch. I’ll also go down now and make you some breakfast and then bring it to you in bed.”

“You don’t need—”

“If you’ll let me do that and you’ll eat, I’ll go in to work.”

She gave a sigh of pretend exasperation. “Oh, I suppose you’re allowed to bring me breakfast.”

He gave her another kiss and a cuddle before getting up, and she was instantly colder in his absence, burrowing deeper under the sheets.

When he returned, it was with a tea tray bearing a plate of scrambled eggs, some sliced fruit, a cup of tea, and a tiny bud vase with a small flower he appeared to have taken from the bouquet on the kitchen table. This latter detail was so very Philip—his sweet little sentimental self—and she smiled as he settled it over her lap.

“Thank you, sweetheart. This is lovely.”

He gave her one of his warmest smiles and picked up the thermometer she spotted tucked next to the silverware. “Let me take your temperature before you eat.”

This always struck Theresa as a great waste of time if she already knew she had a fever, but she also knew that nothing made Philip more nervous than a fever, after how sick she’d been in the late autumn. So she humored him and opened her mouth, letting him slip the tiny glass stick inside.

“Right at thirty-eight,” he said a moment later when he removed it.

“That’s not very high,” she said, hoping the relief on his face meant he’d go ahead and leave for work.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “Low enough not to be dangerous, but just high enough, I imagine, to make you miserable.”

He wasn’t wrong. “I’m okay, though,” she murmured to deaf ears as he kissed her temple.

“I’m going to get dressed while you eat,” he went on. “But I want you to promise that you’ll call me today if you need anything, or if you start feeling worse, okay?”

“I promise,” she lied. She wouldn’t call Philip home from work for anything short of a limb falling off.

He puttered around their room, dressing for work and doing his best to pretend he wasn’t keeping an eye on her.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right here?” he asked, taking a seat beside her on the bed.

“Positive,” she whispered, giving him the warmest smile she could muster. He leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, and she could feel his hesitation as he stood to leave.

Once he was gone, she curled into a tight ball, wishing she’d thought to ask for another blanket, and tried to rest. She dozed off and on in their bed all morning, realizing around noon that she needed to drag herself downstairs for lunch, if only for the sake of her blood sugar. Forcing herself up, she made her slow way down the stairs, her whole body hurting and wishing she was back in bed.

Philip’s soup was sitting in the refrigerator as promised, a sticky note on the bowl’s lid: I love you and hope this soup keeps you warm while I’m gone. Classic Philip again, and she blinked back tears as she heated it in the microwave.

Theresa only wanted to go back to bed after she’d eaten, but the thought of staggering back up the stairs was too much for the moment, and she wandered instead to the couch, where she stretched out under the blanket she’d used when they’d gotten home last night. If only there were two of these, she thought as she closed her eyes, but walking to the linen closet was more than she had energy for, so she told herself she was warm enough under just the one. If she just spent a few minutes lying down, maybe she’d find the strength to make the trek back to the bedroom.

_Ding-dong._ Theresa’s eyes fluttered open a moment later at the sound of the doorbell, and she sighed. The last thing she wanted was to get up off the couch and answer the door. With a groan, she tried to force herself to sit up, but it was a quickly aborted movement: every muscle ached, and she did not have the energy or the motivation to do anything but lie still.

It was probably just a package being dropped off, or someone leafleting for an organization. Whoever it was would go away.

_Ding-dong._

Theresa shut her eyes again. Of course they would go away eventually. They didn’t even know anyone was home.

But what was that? Her eyes flew open at the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock. Was Philip home early? No, it made no sense that he would bother with the doorbell first. That could only mean…

“Theresa?” she heard her mother-in-law’s voice call out softly as the front door opened. “Are you awake, dearest?”

What on earth was Joy May doing here? Confused but frantic, Theresa forced herself up and onto her feet, swaying slightly.

“There you are.” Joy’s head popped around the door frame of the lounge. “Love, you don’t look like you should be up.”

“I’m quite all right,” Theresa protested, aware that the fact that she was in her pyjamas at one in the afternoon did not bolster this claim. “I was just going to…”

Joy cut this off with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand. “Here. Let’s get you comfortable again.” With a firm hand on Theresa’s arm, Joy steered her back toward the couch and gave her a gentle push downward.

“I’m fine, really,” Theresa attempted as she sat.

“Mmm-hmm,” Joy said absently, focused on shaking out the blanket Theresa had tossed aside. “Lie down—the way you were before I disturbed you.” Theresa meekly settled into place, and Joy spread the throw back over her, gently tucking her in. “There now—isn’t that better?”

Theresa was not sure what to say to this that was neither rude nor an admission that she did, in fact, feel as though she’d been run over by a lorry, and what came out instead was simply, “What did you come for?”

Joy chuckled softly, taking a seat in the chair opposite Theresa. “I’ve come because I want to know what’s going on here.”

“Nothing’s going on. I just have a little bug—it’s nothing much. I worked this week but thought I should rest today.”

“I don’t mean today—I mean what’s been going on the last couple months. What’s _wrong_ , Theresa? I can tell by looking at you that you don’t feel well.”

“Like I said, I’m just a little sick. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be better this weekend.”

“But I don’t think you’ve been well for quite some time,” Joy countered. “This is how you looked on Christmas Eve—first time I’d seen you in months, and now I know why. It was your eyes: they were the eyes of someone who felt awful and who’d been feeling awful for a very long time. I knew something was wrong, very wrong. And Philip’s been so cagey, which is never a good sign. I called him at work this morning and he hemmed and hawed and eventually told me you were home resting, and I decided to come and check on you. And see if you’d tell me what’s been happening.”

“I’m diabetic. You know that—I was diagnosed with Type 2 this autumn. My body’s just adjusting.”

Joy raised one eyebrow. “Do you honestly think that in eighty-five years, I’ve never known any other diabetics? I’ve got plenty of diabetic friends. None of them look like this. None of them were sick for months on end when they were diagnosed.”

Theresa began to chew her bottom lip and did not answer. She could hardly argue with the fact that she looked like a dead woman walking, and she did not know what else to say.

“Why don’t I go put the kettle on?” Joy offered with her characteristic firm sweetness. “You stay here, and when I get back we can have an actual discussion about this.”

Theresa swallowed as she watched Philip’s mother retreat to the kitchen. She knew Joy too well to believe she could avoid telling her the whole truth. Joy was first and foremost a mother, and nothing caught her attention faster than something being off with one of her children—a group Theresa had been quickly adopted into from the early days of her relationship with Philip. And when Joy wanted information, she did not stop until she had it.

“Here we are, love,” Joy said sweetly when she returned with two teacups. “Can you sit up a bit? We can prop some pillows behind you.”

She set the cups down on the table in from of the couch, but Theresa shook her head. “I can just sit up.” But she could not keep from wincing at the movement, and Joy caught her expression instantly.

“Does something hurt? What’s wrong?”

Theresa fought an urge to yank the blanket over her head. How _embarrassing_ to be seen practically unable to maneuver into a seated position.

“Nothing’s wrong! I’m just a bit achy.” She hoped Joy would interpret this as part of her temporary illness, rather than extrapolate to the truth—which was that Theresa couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a day that didn’t start with her muscles stiff as a board in the morning and throbbing by evening.

“Where’s your heating pad? I’ll go and get it for you.”

“I don’t need—”

“It’ll make you feel a bit better,” Joy interrupted in a very final tone. “Where is it?”

“The hall closet,” Theresa murmured, feeling her cheeks continue to redden. But as Joy bustled off to retrieve it, she felt tears suddenly rush to her eyes: this was so very Philip. Mortified at the thought of being seen while both sick _and_ weepy, she hurriedly brushed them away, but she felt the same burning in her throat and nose when Joy returned, quickly stacked up a nest of pillows, and settled the heat against her back.

“Is that comfortable, dear?”

Theresa nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She took a sip from her teacup, giving her an excuse to look down.

“Good.” Joy patted her arm and took a seat again in the chair. “Now, I’d like to talk a bit. I know there’s something wrong, and I’m very worried about you. Could you tell me what it is?”

Before Theresa could form an answer, she felt her face crumble as a sob forced its way up her throat. “I d–don’t _know_ what’s wrong,” she choked, her voice cracking on the last word. “I’m j–just _sick_.”

She would have said more, wanted to say more, but now that the tears had started, all she could do was cry. It was horrifying at first—Theresa couldn’t conceive of anything more humiliating than having company while she lay on the couch sick and in her night clothes, and then sobbing on top of it. But as Joy reached over to press her hand, she slowly became conscious that this was something of a relief. She hadn’t cried like this with Philip; had tried to keep even quiet, single tears at bay, trying to protect him from her feelings, trying to ease his worry. But she’d wanted to cry for months, she realized, and to do it in Joy’s soothing, unobtrusive presence simply felt good.

“I–I…” she began, trying to explain, but the rest of the sentence was cut off by her sobs.

“Take you time, love,” Joy said softly, retrieving a box of tissues from a nearby shelf and setting it on the table in front of the couch. “Take your time.”

Theresa forced herself to take deep breaths, eventually slowing her tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes with one of the tissues. “I didn’t mean to do that.” Her mother-in-law, she realized, was wiping her own eyes, too—it had always been the case that Joy could not let anyone cry alone.

Joy reached for her hand again, this time lacing their fingers together and holding on. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

Theresa took another shaky breath. “We don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just keep getting sicker.”

“What’s happening? Tell me what’s happened.”

“I’ve just been…sick. I’m exhausted all the time—I sleep, but it’s never enough. I always have a headache. I’m always weak. Everything hurts, every day. And then I get sick—all the time. I’m always getting sick with something—I’ve been sick more in the last few months than I had been in years. And it…it hangs on, for days and days and days. In October…” She trailed off, hating to think of how sick she’d been then.

“In October,” Joy prompted quietly.

“I got flu…and I was sick for a very long time. I wasn’t well until a couple weeks before Christmas…or at least, back to normal,” she amended. She hadn’t been _well_ since last summer.

“Do you think that’s why you still feel so awful? Because you were so sick for so long?”

“No…perhaps, but I don’t think so. Because you’d think I’d be getting better, and I’m not. I’m…getting worse.” They were not words that she and Philip had ever voiced to each other, but that was the truth of it. She had only felt steadily worse since her diagnosis, not better.

“And of course, there’s the question of why you had flu for months at a time in the first place,” Joy mused. “Dearest, that sounds miserable…why didn’t you or Philip say anything?”

“We didn’t want to worry you.” She felt her eyes filling again, and Joy squeezed her hand.

“Well, I am worried, but it can’t be helped. I love you, so of course I worry about you.”

Theresa bit her lip and did not speak, aware that to do so would only cause the floodgates to open again.

“What do the doctors say to all of this? You’ve told your GP, haven’t you?”

“They tell me I’m diabetic. Which we know.”

“But surely this isn’t normal. Diabetes doesn’t mean constantly sick.”

“Well…they tell me it does lower my immune system, so I might catch more and also have more trouble fighting off what I catch. And the exhaustion and the headaches and the muscle pain aren’t unusual symptoms either.”

“But not to this extent, I wouldn’t think.”

“No,” Theresa conceded. “Not to this extent. And…I should be improving. You’re supposed to not feel well before you’re diagnosed—and I didn’t—but then once you start treating it and changing your diet and taking your medications and monitoring your blood sugar, you’re supposed to feel better.”

“And you feel worse.”

“And I feel _much_ worse.” Her voice trembled on the final word, and more tears slipped out. Joy’s thumb stroked her hand gently.

“Do the doctors find that odd?”

“I don’t know,” Theresa said hopelessly. “They just tell me it will get better, and it never does.” She paused. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “I’m really scared, because no one seems to know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t know what it is or how much worse it’s going to get or what’s going to happen. And I’m just tired. I’m really, really _tired_.” Tears again, but she was starting to give up on fighting them.

“I’m sure,” Joy said quietly. “I’m sure you are.” She got up and moved toward the couch, taking a seat on the edge so that she could wrap Theresa in a warm hug. “I’m sure it’s very frightening,” she said as they embraced. “And exhausting and miserable. You’ve been very strong, love…as always.”

“Have you talked with Philip about how you feel?” she asked as Theresa settled back against the sofa pillow, wiping her eyes.

Theresa shook her head. “I don’t like to worry him.”

“My dear, I would imagine that Philip is already very, very worried.”

“Yes, and I’ll only make that worse if I go on and on about this! He doesn’t need to hear how scared I am. I don’t even like to tell him how awful I feel.”

“If I know anything about Philip, I suspect he already knows both those things. He loves you, and he’s very perceptive. I think it would help you both if you could talk about it.”

“I just…I hate how this has been for him. I know he’s scared, too.”

“Because he loves you—which is why he would want you to tell him how you feel.”

“He always makes me feel so much better.” Theresa felt her eyes filling again, as they always did when she thought about Philip’s nursing. “He’s so good to me.”

Joy chuckled warmly. “That’s not surprising to hear.”

“He’s a very sweet nurse,” she went on. This was only making her more emotional, but now that the conversation had turned to Philip, she couldn’t stop. “And it really…it really does help. If it weren’t for Philip…”

“So there are things he can do for you that help? That’s good.”

In truth there was very little that seemed to help her physically, but… “It just helps when he–when he hugs me,” she said, her tears spilling over as her voice shook. It was not at all the sort of thing she would have said to a third party on any other day, but Theresa was beginning to feel as though a dam had broken inside of her. “When I’m–when I’m sick in–in bed he lies down with me, and-and it helps to have him holding me.” She hiccupped, trying to hold back a sob. “I just…feel better. And he’s warm, and that helps t-too. But I just like…having him near.” Theresa her cheeks begin to warm, embarrassed at her words and embarrassed for Joy. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “sorry to be so…”

“Shh.” Joy patted her arm. “You haven’t got to be sorry for anything.”

“I really love him,” Theresa said, trying to regain control of her tears.

“Of course you do.” Another pat. “He knows that very well.”

Theresa paused. “I also keep…I keep thinking about my mum,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Oh, Theresa.” Joy squeezed her hand.

“And how she just…never got _better_. And I know…I know I haven’t got MS. But I keep wondering…is this the same way?” She fought to hold her voice steady. “Am I just going to get sicker and sicker?”

“No, Theresa, no. We are going to get to the bottom of this, and you are going to get better.”

“Because I don’t think I can do it,” she said, ignoring Joy’s words as her tears spilled over again. “I’m not as strong as she was. I’m _not_.”

“You are stronger than you know, love, but this isn’t like what happened to your mother.” Joy’s own eyes were wet too. “I promise you it isn’t.”

“I’m tired,” Theresa whispered. “I’m tired and I’m scared and I feel awful.” She drew a shaky breath. “All the time. It’s…I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Another squeeze of her hand. “This won’t go on forever, love. I promise you the doctors are going to find a solution and find the best way to treat your diabetes so you don’t feel like this. I know that for sure. But I think the best thing you can do right now is rest. I’m sure you’re tired of that, and I know it’s hard for someone who works as hard as you do, but I think it’s the only thing that will help.”

Theresa nodded, wiping her eyes again.

“How would you feel about taking a nap?”

Theresa hesitated. It sounded like the best thing in the world, and it was what she’d meant to do with the afternoon anyway…but she was so thankful for her mother-in-law’s company that she did not want her to go. The idea of being left alone to fall asleep on the couch suddenly sounded very lonely.

“I’ll stay if you don’t mind,” Joy went on, with her usual ability to read her children’s minds. “I’d like to speak with my son when he gets home, and I’ll sit right over there while you nap.”

Theresa smiled. “I don’t mind.” She let Joy fuss over her pillows and her blanket, and the second blanket that Joy fetched from the linen closet, and then drifted off almost immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

“There you are.”

Philip yelped, practically leaping out of his skin when he saw his mother’s head pop into the kitchen. He’d let himself quietly into the silent house and assumed that Theresa was upstairs, still resting. The last thing he’d expected was to encounter another person, and certainly not Joy May.

“Shh…don’t make so much noise. You’ll wake Theresa. She’s taking a nap on the couch.”

He inwardly kicked himself, hoping his outburst had not, in fact, awakened his wife. But his nerves were in no state to be surprised. “You can’t sneak up on people like that, Mum. I didn’t know you were here.” Why _was_ his mother here?

“I wasn’t sneaking, Philip, and I’m sure you _didn’t_ know I was here.”

He sensed that she was peeved at him, and he suspected that it was for more than simply making a surprised noise. But before he could open his mouth, she went on.

“I have a bone to pick with you. Let’s have a seat.”

Philip was slightly irritated to be invited to sit at his own kitchen table, but more importantly… “I don’t want us to wake Theresa talking,” he said quietly.

Joy shook her head. “I don’t think we will, not if we talk softly. She’s pretty sound asleep, poor dear.” She gave him a severe look that clashed with the gentle way she spoke about his wife. Her expression irritated him further—he didn’t need a lecture today, not when he’d spent the afternoon fretting about Theresa—but he took a seat at the table anyway, knowing this wouldn’t be over until Joy had had her say.

“Philip, I came by your house today because I wanted to know what’s been going on over here. Why have you been so cagey the last couple months? Why wouldn’t you answer any of my questions about Theresa when I called your office this morning? And most importantly, why did my daughter-in-law look like death warmed over at Christmas?”

Philip sensed that these were all rhetorical questions. He was right, because before he could open his mouth to respond, Joy had plowed ahead. “Of course, I knew good and well I wasn’t going to get any answers out of _you_. I had to come over here and disturb Theresa.”

“I’m not sure,” he grumbled, “that there’s really a straight line between my not having much to say this morning and your disturbing Theresa.”

Joy raised her eyebrows. “Was I expected to simply sit at home and worry about her, without a single hint as to how she’s really doing?”

Philip sighed. “The goal, Mum, was that you _wouldn’t_ worry.”

“Well, you fell rather short on that one. Of course I’m worried, Philip. You know how much I care about Theresa.”

He did know that, and the thought made his throat tighten. His mother had taken Theresa under her wing from the very beginning of their relationship, adopting her into the family as quickly as she could. And when Theresa’s own mother had died barely a year after the wedding…Joy had been so good with her, so gentle. She seemed to know intuitively what Theresa needed and how best to approach her at a time when he himself had often been at a loss. He would never forget that in those months, Theresa had always seemed the most calmed and comforted when they were on the way home from a weekend in Liverpool—visits she asked for with increasing frequency.

“I don’t at all like the thought of her being sick when I don’t know a thing about it,” Joy went on. “I’d liked to have been over here helping her and sitting with her the last few months, like I did today. I don’t appreciate being cut out of things, Philip.”

This wasn’t his fault—he hadn’t wanted to worry his mother either, but he’d mostly kept Theresa’s health a secret on her own explicit instructions. “Theresa didn’t want you to be bothered about her—you know how she is. She doesn’t like to trouble people.”

“Of course she doesn’t. That’s how she’s always been. But you, Philip, are supposed to have better sense. For heaven’s sake, she told me this afternoon that she had flu for two months straight this autumn. It never occurred to you that was something you ought to tell me? She’s been sick and frightened and miserable for months now.”

“I know very well,” he said, irritated, “how miserable—“ his voice cracked, and he was forced to swallow through a closing throat before he could go on— “my wife has been.”

“I’m sure you do.” Joy’s tone softened. “I know you’re frightened for her.”

“It’s more than that,” he said, feeling his eyes fill and hearing his voice break again. “I just wish I could do it all _for_ her. I’d rather it were me.”

“Oh, Philip.” Joy stood and came to hug him tightly. “I know. I know you would.”

He hung on for a moment, trying to force the tears back inside, and then let her go. “I hate for her to be sick,” he said softly. “It’s not fair.” She had spent so much of her youth fighting a different condition that another disease struck him as terribly unjust. It was another thought that made his eyes swim.

“No,” Joy said quietly. “It’s certainly not fair. Many things in your lives haven’t been fair.”

“I just want…I just want to take care of her,” he said, feeling his throat close again. “I just…I don’t know how to help her. There’s nothing I can _do_. She always feels so horrible, and I can’t fix it.” His voice seemed to climb an octave, and he swallowed another round of tears as he stared down at his hands.

“Now that’s not true.” Joy laid her hand over his. “That is not at all what I’ve heard from Theresa herself this afternoon. Do not tell me that you don’t help her.”

“What?”

“Theresa told me—without any prompting on my part—that you always make her feel much better. She told me that you are a very sweet nurse, that you’re wonderful to her, and that she doesn’t know what she’d do without you.”

He’d felt so useless in recent months that it was all very strange to hear. “Do you think she…really meant that?”

“She meant it,” Joy said, reaching out to grab his arm. “She told me how much it helped just to have you hold her—she loves for you to hold her and take care of her. You’re doing as much as you can, sweetheart.”

Philip could not speak, did not want to speak, but his tears were spilling over anyway. Joy squeezed his hand.

“I think all you need to do,” she said, “is go and hug your wife.”

\---

“Philip?”

Philip looked up immediately at the sound of Theresa’s voice, switching off the History Channel. He had been watching it down the hall, with the volume very low so as not to wake her, but he’d begun to wonder if he ought to get her up soon anyway for a meal. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d eaten.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” he said, smiling at her as she rubbed her right eye. She was incredibly cute in her pajamas with a head of messy hair. “Did you get some good rest?”

Theresa nodded. “Did your mum go home?” she asked softly.

“Yes, shortly after I came home myself. Can I get you anything?” He moved to stand, but she shook her head.

“Don’t get up,” she said, her voice still small and sleepy. She padded across the room to his chair as he held his arms out, then slowly climbed in with him, squeezing into the extra space between his leg and the chair and draping her legs over his.

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her as she settled against his chest. “Comfy?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm.” She nuzzled closer against him, and he kissed the top of her head.

“How are you feeling?” He laid his hand on her forehead—thankfully, her fever seemed to be gone—and then gently raised her head with a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Tell me honestly, please.”

She pulled away from his finger, rested her head against his chest again, and sighed. The silence that followed suggested she was struggling with the temptation to dismiss the question with another hollow, “I’m okay,” and he hoped she would not give into it. Philip suspected from the slow, tired way she had snuggled up to him that an honest answer would not be a very good one, but he wanted to hear it.

“Better,” Theresa finally said. “Better than this morning.” A pause. “But I’m tired. I slept all afternoon, and I’m still tired.” Another pause. “I…still don’t feel very well.”

He kissed the top of her head again and began to stroke her hair. “What can I do for you, darling?”

“Nothing,” she said with a soft sigh, and it made him want to weep. But then she added, almost shyly, “Just…this. This is nice.”

He gave her another kiss, remembering his mother’s words.

Theresa broke the silence a moment later. “I’m so tired of not feeling well,” she said quietly. “It’s just…this is so hard.”

His chest tightened at her words, which he suspected barely scratched the surface. “Darling…”

“I just…I feel like I’ve been sick _forever_.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she paused for a moment as he began to feel a dampness against his shirt. “And I’m _tired_.”

This time her voice had thickened with tears, and he tightened his arms around her. “I know, sweetheart.” His hand stilled in her hair to hold her head firmly against his chest. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping at her eyes.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, his own voice a whisper as he fought his emotions. “Don’t be sorry for any of this.”

He wanted to fix this, would have given anything to fix it. Watching Theresa get sicker and sicker for months on end with no hope or solution in sight was an absolute nightmare, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to fix any of it or to help her at all. He was at a loss most days, and a few simple hugs seemed a very paltry offering indeed.

“I wish I could fix this,” he told her. “God, I’d give anything to fix it. I’d do anything I could if it would just make you better.”

“You do make me better, though,” she murmured, raising her head to look up at him with eyes that were exhausted but dark in their sincerity. “You always make me feel better.”

Yet he still longed for something more he could do for her, something practical, some way to still give her a nice evening. “Would it make you feel even better if I made you some dinner, and then we cuddled up and watched NCIS?”

Theresa managed a soft smile. “That sounds very nice.” She reached up and lightly touched his hair, then caressed his cheek. “But it’s still you making me feel better.”

She kissed his cheek before burrowing back into his chest, and he squeezed her tightly, kissing her forehead and then resting his head gently on top of hers.


End file.
